Like Threads Entwined
by Briar Rose Bramble
Summary: Alone in the Dark Castle, Rumpel teaches Belle how to spin straw into gold. 2014 Rumbelle Secret Santa gift for WishingForALastingSummer.


This fic was written for WishingForALastingSummer for Rumbelle Secret Santa 2014. Wishy Woo prompted Teacher!Gold and Student!Belle.

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><p>Belle doesn't pause to consider her actions before she deposits herself directly in front of the seated wizard, so that he might show her how to work the large spinning wheel that dominates the far end of the Great Hall. She's simply interested in adding spinning to her growing repertoire of manual skills. Cooking, cleaning and laundering have all been learnt through necessity, but spinning is something that she could discover all for herself. It will help fill the long days when her jailorsaviour is absent and, judging by the contented hours Rumpelstiltskin spends at the wheel, it might well bring her some solace, too.

She doesn't consider what it might _feel_ like either. To be this close to him.

You see, it's been so long since she was this close to _anyone_.

Belle had presumed that she would miss her father or her freedom most, but it's the mundane, everyday physical reminders of friends and family that she yearns for. The hand helping her across the uneven ground where the soldiers' feet had churned the road to mud; the reassuring weight of a palm upon her shoulder; fingers intertwining with hers in solidarity when the news turned from hopeful to hopeless. The small touches that speak of love and home and belonging.

Rumpelstiltskin can be fairly possessive in front of others —a hand on her waist as he leads her from her father's war room; fingers wrapped around her arm on the odd occasion he allows her to join him as he ventures beyond the castle's gates —but Belle often has the impression that this is mostly because he expects her to try and run away. Alone, locked away inside his dark castle, it's usually Belle that reaches for him, unable to quash completely the habit of allowing affectionate touches to punctuate her words.

This closeness — Rumpelstiltskin's long legs bracketing hers — is new.

Distractingly so.

He had considered her request to learn the art of spinning quite solemnly, his sharp face tilted slightly to the side, as if she had set him a puzzle that needed to be solved. Belle, used to flamboyant gestures and shrill laughter, had been equally puzzled by his sudden quiet, and had been on the cusp of withdrawing her request when he had nodded and motioned for her to sit.

She knows without turning to look that Rumpelstiltskin is probably as skittish as the deer that used to fill the woods to the south of Avonlea; all large, liquid eyes and graceful movement calcified into trembling stillness by the sharp snap of a nearby twig folding under a boot or paw. Belle is so used to his constant movement, the patterns of his hands in the air and the way that he almost dances around the room that this uncharacteristic immobility is almost enough to make her nervous.

Learning to spin wool seemed a simple enough request when it tripped from her tongue, but the world has taken on a different tilt now she's nestled between his thighs. Then, after several moments' awkward silence, his arms come round her to demonstrate the proper position for her hands and it's almost as if he's embracing her.

Belle feels a sudden tightness in her throat at the memory of being held.

His vaguely amphibian appearance leaves a lasting impression of cold sliminess, but Belle long ago ascertained that this is not so. Instead he is all warmth, like a snake that's been reclining in the sun. _It's a simile that fits_, Belle realises with a smile. His scaly skin is smooth as snake skin, and she can almost imagine the sound it would make, whispering over her own.

Her smile fades a little. She isn't certain when she started to have thoughts like that, nor where to put them now that they've arrived. Thankfully, they're only small, as thoughts go, and it's easy to push them aside and focus on her tutor.

Indeed, it's becoming hard to focus on anything else.

You see, sitting this close, Belle finds that she can _smell_ him.

It's not at all what she expects; there's nothing unpleasant or otherworldly emanating from him, nothing of brimstone, or rotten teeth, or any number of the other things that are whispered in his wake. He smells like wool, laundry soap, leather, and the lavender she's taken to folding between their linens as she presses them. Mostly, he smells like a man, ordinary and everyday.

Belle's throat tightens further and she blinks rapidly, glad that Rumpelstiltskin cannot see her face.

Before she can dwell too deeply upon this new discovery, there's a slight ripple of magic and a lump of raw wool appears in her lap. Belle knows almost nothing of the spinners' craft, all threads arriving in her sewing box already dyed and twined, but as she picks it up she recognises that the dun-coloured fluff has already been washed and brushed, ready to be spun.

"This is roving," her tutor informs her. The sound of his voice this close to her ear makes Belle start slightly and she feels herself flush for no discernible reason.

"You only need to work a little at a time. Halve it and start to tease the threads apart, like this," he demonstrates, long fingers separating the strands with ease. "You try."

His manner is quietly professional, and Belle realises suddenly that he has done this before. She was a precocious child, she exhausting her poor governesses before it was decided that a tutor would be engaged to teach her. She has enough experience of instructors to discern from his manner that while Rumpelstiltskin may be a spinner, he's also been a teacher of spinners, and knows how to tutor a complete novice.

It's slightly disconcerting, as if he had suddenly shed his green-gold skin and become someone else. This Rumpelstiltskin is completely different to the one who bargained for her, and Belle is suddenly certain this is a glimpse of the man behind the theatre, not just another mask he likes to wear.

It's a reminder that he's a real person, not just a strange creature made of spiked leather and purple smoke. He has his own story; the Dark One didn't simply appear from the pages of a book, but is a creature of flesh and blood.

Belle's thoughts make her clumsy and she fumbles with the thread. There's an impatient sound from behind her and suddenly his fingers are over hers, helping her pull a neat length of fibre from the mass of fluff.

It ought to be awkward, his fingers tangling with hers, but somehow the two of them work together to tease out a lumpy length of yarn long enough to feed through the hooks and around the bobbin.

Throughout all of this, Rumpelstiltskin is quiet, patient and watchful, his clever fingers always close by, ready to come to her aid if need be.

Belle bites her lip as she tries to make her fingers obey, but it's hard to concentrate when so much of his attention is focussed on her. She's being silly, she knows, but somehow she's allowed herself to forget how very intimidating Rumpelstiltskin can be. What's worse is that he isn't even _trying_ to make her feel so awkward. Indeed, although he is never unkind — not since his first theatrical attempts at making her miserable — this is by far the nicest she has ever known him, and it is the utmost foolishness on her part that it's making her nervous.

"Steady now," he bids her.

Her fingers falter, leaving the raw wool in an ugly, twisted knot. Belle regards it morosely, certain that her nerves are tangled up into a similar shape somewhere inside her stomach, wondering what her illustrious galaxy of governesses would say if they could see her current failure.

It's the wrong question to ask herself; while they would doubtless be wryly amused by her inability to master such a deceptively simple task, all would be shocked at finding her sitting in the arms of a man. Her father and her fiancé might have dismissed him as some sort of beast, but Rumpelstiltskin's odd looks would not be enough to dissuade the women who taught her of his masculinity.

It's the oddest feeling. Belle has missed so much about her old life that she has never stopped to consider how little she misses the silent rules that governed her behaviour. How free her captivity has made her.

She relaxes a little of the tension in her perfect posture and allows herself to recline ever-so-slightly towards him, simply because she wishes to.

Rumpelstiltskin reaches up to examine the knotted wool, his thumbs brushing over the lumps in the fibre. His fingers are lightly covering hers and each slide of his thumb tickles against her. He doesn't speak, doesn't berate her as she half fears he might, nor does he offer any advice.

The air is charged. Even though she doesn't quite dare to turn her head to look at him, Belle knows that Rumpelstiltskin is just as conscious of her.

Because, she understands, he _is_ a man. Belle has thought of him as such for a long time, but she's never really considered what it means. That she lives alone with him in his castle. That she's currently sat between his legs, or that she can feel the solid warmth of him though the plain material of her dress.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather learn how to spin straw into gold, dearie?" he asks suddenly, making her start in her arms.

"No thank you," Belle replies, the answer surprised from her before she really considers what he's offering. "I want to make myself some mittens," she continues, lest she seem ungrateful. "Gold thread would look pretty, but I don't think it would be very warm."

"Ah, but if you could spin gold you could buy all the mittens you wanted," he reasons, his voice trilling up and down over the words like a tin whistle. He sounds far more like the Dark One than he did five minutes ago, and Belle finds herself wondering if it's done with conscious effort.

"Who would I buy them from?" she counters. "It's not as if any traders come to the Dark Castle. Besides, you have rooms full of gold here. If spending it was so easy then we'd already have all the mittens we need." Or any of the other familiar clutter that accumulates in lived-in places, now she comes to think of it. "There's almost nothing in this castle that you haven't won in a deal."

Rumpelstiltskin shifts behind her.

"Any spinner can teach you how to make yarn," he presses. "Some might think you're wasting an opportunity."

"I don't know any spinners," she reminds him. "I just know you. I'll only ever know you," she adds gently.

There's a long moment of silence and Belle worries that she might have offended him. She wants so much to turn and look at him

"If you'd rather teach me to spin gold, you can," she offers, not liking his silence one bit. It was almost cosy before, but now it has sharp edges. "Although I don't think I'd be any good at it," her native honesty prompts her to add, even as she tries to cheer him. "I don't have any magic in me."

When it comes, his reply is soft, his voice pitched lower than she has ever heard it before. "Would you like to have magic in you?"

Belle shivers, although really she isn't cold. How could she be with him sat so close?

"I've never really thought about it," she replies slowly. Not beyond childhood daydreams of fairy wings and books that could read their tales aloud. "It's not something I ever thought I could have. Don't you have to be born with magic?"

"Magic can be taken," he admits. "It can be hoarded. Sometimes a person has a spark of something deep inside them that can be kindled into magic with the right persuasion."

Belle doesn't believe for one moment that she has a spark of anything, no matter how deeply she looks or how much persuasion is applied, but this seems important to him for some reason and she cannot bring herself to decline his offer.

"Alright," she agrees at last. After all, her attempts at magic can't be any more of a disaster than her attempts at wool.

Rumpelstiltskin leans back to pluck a straw from the basket on the floor. It's a swift movement, but Belle finds that she misses the warmth of him at her back almost instantly, and sighs quietly when he returns.

There's no need to tease the straw into a workable shape, and Belle is denied the simple familiarity of his fingers brushing hers. Instead Rumpelstiltskin shows her how to work the single treadle, both feet counting out a steady rhythm. The motion causes her to rock slightly against him and Belle knows that she's doing it wrongly, as Rumpelstiltskin is practically motionless as he spins. He does not correct her though, and she assumes that the correct motion is something she will learn with time.

"When making yarn," he tells her, in his measured tutor's tones, "one hand pinches, one hand pulls. When spinning straw, the motion is similar but the hands are less important than the heart."

Sensing a story, Belle pauses. "How do you mean?"

"Magic is driven by emotion," Rumpelstiltskin replies. "The stronger the emotion, the stronger the magic. Hate. Jealousy. Betrayal."

Belle shivers and leans back against his chest, subconsciously seeking out his warmth to counter the coldness his words bring. When Rumpelstiltskin neither pulls away nor asks her to move, she stays where she is.

"Reach deep down inside yourself," he instructs, and she can feel his voice rumbling up from inside his chest. He's speaking evenly once more, the eerie cadence of the Dark One apparently forgotten. "Find the moment when your life was darkest, when hate was the strongest thing in your heart."

His sharp nose is somewhere close to her ear, tickling against the curls that tumble down past her shoulders.

"Think of the moment when every future happiness was stolen from you," he continues. "Think about the person who took your life from you. Focus on your hate."

She can feel the hot damp of his breath, hear each fitful lungful as it puffs from his narrow chest. His words carry a cruel bite, but his voice tugs at something inside her.

Pinching the straw tightly between her fingers, Belle tries to do as he asks. She rocks with the rhythm of the treadle and thinks about the man who saved her town from ogres and who teaches her now. He might be cruel and jealous at times, but he can also be generous and sweet, and right now he's warm and firm against her back.

It's then that she feels it against the plump curve of her buttocks, warmer and firmer than the rest of him.

Belle is innocent, but she isn't ignorant. There are puppies and kittens born every year at Avonlea and when her governess was reluctant to explain things to her she found the books on husbandry in the library. Although perhaps not the most romantic education, it does mean that she has an academic understanding of what is happening, even if she only knows the Latin words for it. Yet _knowing_ something, she realises, and _experiencing_ it are two very different things.

It would appear that Rumpelstiltskin is excited by her closeness.

Belle feels her pulse beat suddenly and sharply between her legs and is forced to revaluate the situation.

_Rumpelstiltskin is as excited by her closeness as _she_ is by _his_._

She believes him to be a man, yes — known him as such since the moment she found the sparse little bedroom dedicated to his missing son — but has never suspected that he might see her as a woman. She's always been a possession, an ornament, occasionally an irritation, but never an adult woman — not to anyone. The thought that her captor sees in her what she has long recognised in him sits awkwardly upon her, like wearing someone else's cloak. It weighs heavily in unexpected places, snags on her thoughts and threatens to trip her

Then it all clicks into place like the tumblers in a lock.

Belle swallows. She may miss the casual touches of her former life, but she knows that there is nothing casual about this. There has never been a more serious touch in her life.

She had thought that accepting Rumpelstiltskin's price for her town's safety would mean never having the family or the home she was raised to expect, but apparently it seems that she may be able to have _him_ instead. Rumpelstiltskin may have won her in a deal, but he surrendered part of himself to her in the process and now they will be together, always.

Forever was his price, but forever is also his payment. His fate is entwined with hers now, leaving them wound about one another like the fibres in the yarn lying discarded on the floor.

Belle's thoughts eddy around and about, but always returning to this sudden certainty; this strange creature, this lonely _man_, might someday be hers for the taking, if only she knew how.

"Look down," he murmurs.

Belle opens eyes that she didn't realise had fallen shut and looks at the thread between their fingers. It's glinting in the light, red-gold like burnished bronze.

Belle's feet still against the treadle, and the room falls into silence. She's managed some small magic. The straw has changed into metal, but even her unpractised eye can tell that it isn't gold.

"Copper," Rumpelstiltskin surmises, twisting the thread around a finger. It yields easily to his touch, but unlike the gold that pools at his feet, it maintains the new shape, holding itself tight in a coil even after he releases it. "How very unexpected."

He's wondering what it can mean, wondering what she did to upset the process. Belle can almost hear the thoughts click-clicking through his mind.

"What have you done?" he asks quietly. There's an edge to his voice and Belle cannot quite be certain whether it's a threat or fear that she hears.

She considers pleading ignorance, after all she knows nothing of magic, but Belle's never been able to lie very well, and Rumpelstiltskin is an expert at both. But how can she possibly communicate what happened when she barely understands it herself?

"I don't really hate anyone," she explains at last, forming each word with care. Certainly not enough to make gold. "I certainly don't hate you."

They sit in silence. Belle feels as if the awkward pause should have robbed any desire from their situation, but if anything the added tension simply makes it harder to bear. She's on the verge of asking him to do something, anything, to end the shifting shapeless want that prickles under her skin.

He leans away to select a fresh piece of straw from the basket and places it in her hands. "Carry on," he instructs.

Belle tries, but this time the straw is just straw, twisting through their fingers in lumpy twine.

"I can't," she whispers.

"Carry on," he repeats, his breath his warm against her ear.

A warm mouth is pressed to the small area of exposed skin between her shoulder and her neck in a soft, lingering kiss. Belle's feet slip against the treadle, sending the bobbin racing and almost twisting the straw from her grasp.

Strong fingers cover hers, grasping the straw before it is lost.

"Steady, girl," he murmurs, the words hot against her skin.

Belle lets her head fall back against his shoulder, exposing the smooth column of her neck, and his lips return. The kisses are hot, open mouthed, alternating between slow, sucking heat and sweet, nuzzling slides that leave her gasping.

Somehow she maintains her position at the wheel as his hands leave hers to stroke their way up her arms to her shoulders. She can feel his sharp nails scratching her lightly though the fabric and each gentle graze sends tiny shockwaves of sensation chasing up her arms to radiate across her shoulders and down her chest

He loops an arm about her waist, a hand settling just below her breast as he pulls her more firmly against him, until there's no telling where one ends and the other begins. She's rocking against him, needing more of his touch.

Strong fingers grasp at her skirts, hitching them up above her knees to tangle with the stockings and garters beneath. Belle's underclothes have never held more than a practical interest for her before, forgotten about unless a ribbon loosened itself or was pulled too tight, yet under his hands they become new territory.

"Belle," he whispers, his hand pausing in its task, and Belle understands that he is giving her a choice, waiting for her decision.

She wriggles impatiently, her choice made months before when she promised him forever. He doesn't move and Belle can feel her skin growing hotter and tighter as she waits for him. "Yes," she tells him. "Yes."

The tableaux breaks, and his hand moves ever further towards her centre, the relief that Belle feels clashing awkwardly with a new impatience that grows with each touch. When fingers finally meet flesh, Belle is shocked at the sound that rises unbidden from her chest.

He slides easily against her and Belle somehow comprehends that this slickness is designed to greet him, making his gentle touch so very different to the stolen moments when she tried this herself.

Unable to articulate her needs, she grips at his thighs, feeling the muscles flex beneath her palms. Leaning back she turns her head, pressing artless kisses along his jaw, his ear, into his hair, anywhere that she can reach.

The arm across her chest clamps her tightly to him while he explores her breast through the restrictive cloth of her dress and stays. Tugging at the material, he slides a hand inside the bodice. It's awkward, but he manages to palm her breast. It's inelegant, his fingers tangling with the modesty lace that softens the neckline of her dress, but when those same fingers find and gently pinch at a nipple, the feeling causes something to twist deliciously inside her stomach, causing her to gasp aloud.

The hand beneath her skirts twists and somehow he slides a finger inside her while still stroking against the needy bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex. The sensation is staggering, almost overwhelming, and Belle presses her thighs together in an attempt to dispel some of the gathering tension, trapping his hand in place.

There's no relief in the new position, instead everything is amplified, rushing up upon her with breathless haste and she cries out, her face damp against his neck. It builds and builds then suddenly breaks beneath her and Belle has no choice but to fall.

It's a shivery feeling, fluttering like the frantic wings of a bird, yet larger than she; deep as the tolling bell that called the workers of Avonlea back from the fields.

Her cry breaks the silent tension of the hall as she calls to him, stumbling over his unwieldy name. "Rumple," she manages with effort. "Rumple…"

His arms tighten further about her, almost crushing her against his chest and she feels the hot rush of his breath as it leaves him all at once while his fingers continue to stroke and tease

Then it's too much and she's squirming away from his touch rather than further into it. Sensing her discomfort, he gently removes his hand and strokes her skirts back into place, murmuring something calming and incomprehensible into her hair. He's no longer pressed hard against her and is breathing as if he's run all the way from his room in the tall tower. Belle wonders if he has found a similar release and whether it has left him as shaken, or if this is just a small thing compared to the magic he wields.

Soon she will turn and kiss him properly. There's no rush, though. He told her that this would be forever, and Rumpelstiltskin is a man of his word. With no fiancé to placate and no chaperones to obey, Belle is free to learn to love him at her own pace and by her own rules.

She's almost lying against him now, the bones having melted from her limbs. The straw lies forgotten at their feet, part copper, part uneven twine, no more successful than her efforts with spinning wool. Belle registers the slightest disappointment at her failure, but she isn't surprised; that sort of magic never calls to her anyway.

Especially now that she's found something better.


End file.
